A Gift From the Wood
by Rozzle
Summary: After happening upon a sacred plant that is not supposed to exist outside of viera groves, Fran becomes obsessed with gathering the ingredients for a potent elixir for Balthier's benefit. That is, if he survives her risky behavior long enough to take it.
1. Not a Morning Person

_**AUHTORS' NOSE**: Okay, I don't own this. I own a copy of the game, but I don't own the rights. Also, as a side note, don't be too cruel __por favor. I know it's a bit weak, but I'm doing what I can. Le sob._

_Well. What I can do at, like, one in the morning. ANYWAY..._

* * *

To be true, in the two years since Ashe ascended to the throne and Vayne Solidor had been cast down into whatever blazing hell he deserved, things had been relatively peaceful. Well, if one were to skip over the little incident that mainly took place between Vaan and the Judge of Wings. Balthier and Fran had gotten themselves mixed up in that little tryst unwittingly, after inviting the young sky pirate and his entourage to go on a bit of a treasure hunting adventure, but since then it had been a peaceful life of pilfer, pillage, and plunder. Which, honestly, Balthier preferred. There was no babysitting clueless teenagers who had delusions of grandeur, or some silly princess who seemed to believe she was holier than the Gran Kiltias and could walk on water.

No. It was just Balthier and his viera partner, holed up in the Strahl for what seemed like days on end, just like it used to be. Nobody else was occupying the seats in the cockpit, and no _children_ were shoving their heads over his shoulder trying to see what he was doing as though he were giving them a lesson. The small, cramped cabin was usable once more, no longer housing weary royalty who claimed that things were just _too much to bear,_ with Balthier and Fran whispering in private how the princess probably would have thought against occupying their bed if she knew what went on in it. Some knightly traitor-turned-hero wasn't preaching his doubts of the sky pirates' intentions while making oaths of the sword and bellowing out high speech in his oh-so-mighty tone of voice, his ramblings replaced by sweet, sweet silence.

It was now just Balthier and Fran. Together. Alone. Just how it used to be.

It was the two of them, visiting pubs with maps and notes, settling in dark corners to get away from prying eyes while sipping on brandy and plotting out their next move. It was just the two of them, perusing shops for better ranged weapons and sneaking about in tombs and palaces in efforts to make off with glittering treasures without getting caught. It was a welcome relief to just have the occasional Imperial ship on their tail, rather than a flagship and its entire fleet. Most importantly, it was nice to get the alone time. In attempts to keep up appearances, they had acted like the utmost professionals in the presence of company, never alluding to the fact (save Fran's moment of sentiment when Balthier found himself wounded and down at the Pharos) that they were anything more than mere partners.

It just seemed that they wouldn't understand. Fran and Balthier an item? Who _would_ understand? Viera were supposed to be cold and callous towards Humes, and Humes from Archadia were supposed to be supremest and judgmental. Beyond that, viera lived so much _longer_ than Humes; Fran alone was older than Balthier's father had been. By the time the woman hit middle age, Balthier should have been dead. They were both kind of going on the expectation that their high-flying life of risk would wipe them both out before they had a chance to die of old age and, to be honest, that was preferable to both. Fran felt that life without the only Hume she ever gave two sniffs about would be rather bleak, and Balthier... well, Balthier didn't want age to mar his good looks. Call him arrogant, but he'd rather go out with a bang looking like a million gil, than wither away in some apartment in Archades looking like a raisin with limbs. Besides, judging by his father, the Bunansa line did _not_ age well.

It was nice to share the cabin again, mostly. Fran stayed on the left side of the bed, ears twitching as she dreamed, often uncovered due to her ritual of falling asleep while complaining of how unbearably hot the cabin got due to its location next to the engine room, her armor ditched in favor for one of Balthier's shirts (the sleeves rolled up to mask that the arms were far too short). Balthier would steal every ounce of blanket on the bed, isolate himself on the right side of the mattress, and basically do his best impression of a mummified corpse. Only half of his head was visible at any given time, his nose peeking out above the covers with his snoring muffled by the fabric he was basically inhaling. For a man who fancied himself as pure class, he certainly did have peculiar sleep habits. He would only occasionally break this habit for Fran's sake if she wanted to get a bit closer, though she'd often wake up on such nights and find him rolled up like a kid in a rug regardless.

And that particularly morning happened to be such a day. Smelling the morning air wafting in from the vents, Fran's nose twitched just hard enough to jar her from her sleep. She had always been a light sleeper, and quite the morning person. She attributed it to her time in the Wood, where mornings were always so beautiful in comparison to the rest of the day, the fresh light filtering down from the treetops, the sound of birds and the Green Word swirling gracefully throughout the village. Mornings evoked a sense of joy and peace that Fran had missed, making the earlier hours of the day the most bearable. Smiling softly and sitting up, she rubbed her eyes and yawned, glancing over at the man who lay beside her.

Or, she thought it was a man. She couldn't tell. She only saw hair in need of a serious combing, and heard noises rumble from under the covers that likely would have frightened the Behemoth King. Sighing, she nudged the amorphous blob that occupied the mattress with her. When no response came, her brows furrowed and she shoved harder.

"_Whaaaaaaaat_?" came the eventual, whining response, a tired and ruffled Balthier exposing his face and groggily rolling over. Oh yes, he was classy alright. Once he was awake and had cleaned himself up, he would be as suave and debonair as any woman could ever hope for. However, should any lucky lady manage to land this lovable sack of flesh, they'd find that any and all of his charming aspects were lost the morning after. To say Balthier was a morning person would be like saying Lord Larsa could win an arm-wrestling match with Yiazmat: It wasn't true, isn't true, and no matter how much effort was put into it trying to _make_ it true, it would _never_ be a fact so long as the world still stood.

"Balthier, it is morning."

Her voice was patient and soothing, but it did nothing to better Balthier's mood.

"Oh. What time?"

"Judging from the sun, perhaps eight."

"Fran? Eight is a myth. There exists no time before noon."

"But Balthi--"

"Eight is a myth!" he repeated louder. "The hours between six and twelve are venomous lies spread about in fairy tales. They exist no more than winged coeurls or malboros with facial hair."

"But malboros with facial hair exist."

Silence from his end. He was motionless for a second, then realizing he was too tired to argue effectively he merely covered his head again and rolled closer to the edge of the bed. Fran rolled her eyes and threw her legs over the side of the mattress, running her fingers through her silvery-white hair as she popped her spine. They needed a new bed, she mulled. Their current one was breaking down something horrible, and was _hell_ on her back.

"When you get up," Balthier grunted, "would you be so kind as to bring me the canteen? The inside of my mouth tastes like the Necrohol smells."

Fran stretched and pushed her hair from her eyes, walking on her toes towards the door to the cockpit. She paused at the threshold and glanced back at Balthier, shaking her head and letting out a long sigh. He looked like a grub, his face not visible and his entire body wrapped up in the sheet she once shared with him. He squirmed a bit and nudged the bedside table by accident, a couple of his rings spilling down with a clatter, and his hand shot out from his linen cocoon to blindly feel about the floor for them. He only found one--a green one--then huffed indignantly and retracted his arm back into the little Balthier Pupa that infested the mattress.

"Do I look like your mother?" Fran inquired, her voice dry to anyone's ears but his. He could detect the subtle laugh in her voice, the mocking tone that could only be sensed in a couple of words. Grumbling, he awkwardly fumbled with the cover before finally figuring out which way was up, his unkempt bed hair visible far before squinted eyes that seemed rather adverse to the thought of daylight.

"If I say 'yes' and add in a 'please,' will you bring me the canteen anyway?"

"I shall consider myself lucky for earning a 'please,' especially this early," the viera chuckled. "Very well. When do you intend to get up?"

"When the current time exists."

"Oh? So right now isn't real?"

"This is a cruel dream. _Eight in the morning _isn't real."

She shook her head and trotted to the cockpit, ruffling around in the back seats to see if the canteen was anywhere amongst the clutter. Piles of hides, magicite, pricey phials of elixirs and ancient mixtures, gold, gil, weapons, and armor hid their necessities quite well. After tossing a rancid tanned giantskin aside with a wrinkle of her nose, she slid a small wooden crate from under a seat into the middle of the floor, a crate that was marked "PROVISIONS" in charcoal, written in Balthier's chicken scratch script. She sniffed and brushed a few pebbles that broke from a dark stone off of the lid, taking in the rather pungent aroma of the spilled shadow magics. Lifting the lid with a creak, she rustled her long, thin fingers through their supplies in search for that damnable canteen.

There were ethers, the tiny bottles wrapped neatly in paper and tied with string. Potion bottles clanked together, at one point so hard that she feared the glass would shatter. For some reason, a handful of warp motes had found their way within, nestled under a pound of wrapped nanna cheese that Fran had traded for with the garif after learning she had a taste for the stuff. She continued to dig around: starfruit, a pouch of dried berries, a bundle of gold needles, an alarm clock (which she contemplated using, looking over her shoulder at the door to the cabin), various succulent and malboro fruits they had gathered from their hunting, some dried and spiced rat tails that Balthier would never _admit_ he enjoyed...

Remedy. Remedy. Remedy. Eye drops. Satin pouch of phoenix down, with a few stray feathers lying at the bottom of the box. A canister full of Echo Herb. Aha! The canteen!

She snatched it up grimaced when she felt how light it was, giving it a small shake and listening to their water swish within. How lovely, it wasn't even a quarter full. She cleared her throat and climbed up from where she was knelt over the box, closing the lid with her foot and nudging it under one of the back seats. Slowly turning and sauntering to the threshold of the cabin, she poked her head inside and rattled the canteen just hard enough for Balthier to hear through the sheets. He didn't immediately respond, a long pause following the sound. He finally peeked up and cocked his head in a cute, innocent manner that seemed both perfectly fitting and extremely out of character.

"Something wrong..?"

"Our water's almost gone," she responded, walking back to the bed and tossing the canteen atop her partner. She took her seat on the edge and pulled off the shirt she had borrowed, fishing around in the floor for her scattered pieces of armor. Balthier knew better than to look; as alluring as having Fran dressing next to oneself might seem, it was terribly awkward due to how very _complex_ viera armor found itself. Between fidgeting with the latches on the chest piece only to find that the veil over her stomach had gotten caught around her back, or the random "ow, ow, OW" that followed her forcibly yanking the hair from her helmet, it wasn't a pretty sight. The only thing he could stand watching her do was strap her feet into her heels, which he peeked over to glimpse at when he felt her stand. That was something far less painful to witness.

"Why are you getting dressed?" he finally asked at long last. She looked up from her shoes to peer at him, matter-of-factly answering, "I'm taking the Strahl to the Estersand. We need water."

"So you go to a desert?"

"Your mind truly doesn't wake up until noon, does it?"

Balthier blinked, baffled by these words.

"Balthier, did you forget what's at the Estersand?"

He stared blankly, almost positive that this was some sort of trick question. Fran would have ended his suffering and flat out told him, but she was interested in what he had to say. She urged him on with a nod, Balthier glancing around the room in an effort to avoid eye contact with her. By the gods, did he ever feel stupid. He knew that he should know, but he was far too tired to know if his first thought was correct or even if it applied to the situation.

"Cockatrices?" he drawled, smiling a goofy I'm-Not-Completely-Here grin. Fran sighed in response.

"Well, yes. But there's also a river."

"There's a river?" he asked incredulously, smile falling. Fran reached over and patted him on the head, uttering the words, "Go back to sleep."


	2. The Ichthon's Treasure

Needless to say, telling Balthier to go to sleep only prompted him to give up his argument that "eight isn't a time" and urged him to climb from bed. Whenever anyone told him to do anything, it was likely he would do the opposite. No sooner had Fran taken her seat did her groggy companion come shuffling out of the back, sans shoes, vest, and holster. His white shirt was unbuttoned and his hair was quite a mess, looking as though it had been caught in one of the Westersand's legendary sandstorms. Fran peered up at him curiously as he flopped in his seat, started flipping switches without a word being uttered, and began to get the Strahl moving. It was funny that driving an airship had become such a second nature to him that, even when he wasn't positive what was going on, he could still flawlessly pilot his beloved vehicle.

"Are you awake for good?" Fran asked, tending to her own duties on her side of the cockpit. Balthier looked at her dumbly, saying something that she construed as "Huh?" She laughed worriedly and shifted a lever, announcing aloud, "We're off."

"To where?"

"The Estersand."

"Oh. Right."

The Strahl started slow, stalling for a split second before gaining its full momentum and zipping off from their current position over the Salikawood. Fran looked over the side and smiled a bit as she gazed down at the tree tops, the distinct glow of little red bombs sometimes visible on the winding paths of the forest even from the skies. Since she first learned of the Salikawood's existence, she had been very intrigued by it, oft wondering just how many viera lived in hidden groves scattered throughout the land, hidden from earth and sky by disorienting magics that seemed to erase them from existence. Sometimes she felt that, had she been born in the Salikawood rather than Golmore, she would have never left the Wood. Despite its close proximity to the devilish Highwastes, it was still such a beautiful, tranquil, and utterly calming place.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Balthier asked, a bit more awake. Fran's ears perked up and she turned quickly to him, earning a small laugh from her Hume partner. He was always fascinated with just how rabbit-like his girl was, beyond the obvious claws and ears; if she was ever lost in thought, a sudden noise could cause her to react in a manner better fit for an Ozmone hare that heard a Wu coming around the bend. He nodded his head towards the outside and smiled, adding, "The Salikawood. It's a gorgeous place."

"Yes," she agreed, relaxing her ears. "Dangerous, but stunning."

"A bit like my partner, yes?"

She didn't react in a way anyone could readily tell, but Balthier saw her eyes smile despite her typical scowl. Viera valued maintaining the essence of stoicism, for whatever reason. It seemed like a cultural thing that they were just not supposed to react to or care about anything, with the exception of Mjrn, maybe, or the strange viera he had stumbled across while still at the side of Ashe and Vaan, who seemed utterly determined to find her soul mate. Oh, that one was strange enough to make even Vaan uncomfortable, playing a game of hard to get with and creeping the poor boy out to the point that he jumped at the first opportunity to pawn her off on some hapless, lovestruck gent. Balthier had stood at the sidelines with Fran, fighting back gales of laughter. Fran merely seemed disgusted with the other viera, muttering something about her lack of self control.

"I think," Fran finally spoke, "that your kind words are repayment for your gruff tone with me earlier."

"I was cruel?"

"Not cruel. Gruff. You are probably the most unpleasant man in the world when it comes to mornings."

"And how many men have you seen in the morning, Fran?"

She took her hands off of the controls momentarily and turned to Balthier, bluntly replying, "Four."

Balthier didn't even look at her, only staring in the direction they were headed as he dodged around a flock of vultures that soared over a carcass in the Mosphoran Highwaste. Fran placed her hands back on the controls and shook whisps of white hair from her crimson eyes, flicking a couple of switches to relieve some unnecessary engines to conserve fuel, and pressing a button that simply made a fan above her cease.

"Don't count Basch, Vaan, and Vossler while we were camping in the Ogir-Yensa sandsea. Or Basch and Vaan while we were camping anywhere. Don't get cocky and decide to count Larsa during our stay in the Paramina Rift either, just because he's male. I meant in a romantic sense."

"None, then. Waking up next to a snoring cocoon is far from romantic."

No response from his end. Sometimes, Fran swore that if a third party decided to casually observe the two that they would decide that they hated one another. It was just the sense of humor they developed, she supposed. Viera did have quite the dry, blunt sense of humor by nature, and Balthier's nit-picking insults seemed to have rubbed off on her a wee bit. It wasn't anything she could complain about, honestly. He responded to it well enough, and she had grown to find the humor in her few flaws and his reaction when she pointed out some of his own.

"You forget what emerges out of cocoons, sweetheart," he reminded with a smirk.

"Well, you're about as flamboyant as a butterfly."

"Snappy today, aren't we?"

"You like it," she answered with a smile. He couldn't deny this. He did like it when she decided to act a bit saucier than normal. It was a welcome relief from her all-business demeanor when they were actually up to their thieving, pirating ways. It was a side of Fran he felt special for seeing, since she did such a good job concealing it from others. It was a side he almost didn't see at all when Ashe, Vaan, Penelo, and the knight with horrible fashion sense lingered around. He thought perhaps it was because royalty was in their midst, but it was far more likely she was just uncomfortable. Viera always were a bit wary of strangers, and it always seemed to take a great deal of time to win one of the rabbits over.

"And, we're over Nalbina," Balthier announced. "Should we dock at the aerodome, or just go further out and anchor at the river itself?"

"Oh. You remember there's a river now."

"Shush."

He stopped the ship over Nalbina, knowing he had earned the attention of the people below. Even without being able to see them from his altitude, he could feel them looking up in confusion, wondering just what would cause an airship to stop in their airspace. He didn't mind. Balthier was used to attention, and he was used to parking wherever he damn well pleased. He was just waiting for Fran's opinion, watching as the viera carefully considered their options. Hand up to her face with the claw of her index finger resting at the corner of her lips, she peeked down at the ground where they levitated above the bazaar and sighed. Her free hand rolled in the air, signaling she was going to speak but just needed some time to gather her words.

"Provisions. Do we need them?" she finally asked aloud. Balthier looked behind his partner, at the crate she shoved under a seat covered in pelts and pennies. He shrugged, answering, "You were the last one to go through the box."

"I think we were out of smelling salts," she said plainly. "Do they sell that in Nalbina?"

"I don't think Nalbina has much in the way of medicine. They're more keen on battle-related wares. If you need medicine, you could always go by the Estersand Camp. I'm sure one of their lot has those horribly-scented phials."

"Those horribly scented phials have served us well on more than one occasion," she remarked, grabbing her steering column yet again. She flicked a switch just below it and nodded to Balthier, quickly instructing, "Let's take her to the banks, then. We may just go by Rabanastre later, while we're in the area."

* * *

The River Nera. Neba. Nebra?

Something. He wasn't good with names.

It was as blue as the ocean and as wide as a lake, the other side barely visible due to the great distance. If not for the cliffs and dunes rising across the way, Balthier felt as though he wouldn't even know there was another side. The expanse of azure seemed as though it would go on forever and ever, glittering in the sun in such a manner that-for a split second-he was a bit disappointed that he decided to become a sky pirate and not one of the more traditional types. The skies, however, were more free than the water. Water can be claimed, while the sky above cannot.

Standing barefoot in the sand, he slowly walked off of the river bank and into the water, allowing his feet to sink in a bit. Being here was like being at a beach, only with more cacti and Ichthon and a distinct lack of the humidity he oh-so despised. The water was lukewarm around his ankles, but cold around his toes. Sighing as he stood in the river with canteen in hand, he gripped the container in his teeth and quickly removed his shirt. He looked nearby for the cleanest rock he could see, pitching it in that direction. He hoped it was as clean as it looked. He didn't want his good shirt dirty and wet from this little chore. Fran watched this spectacle, ears twitching as she heard him in the distance muttering curses. He thought he had it rough? He should try walking on the desert sands in stilettos.

"If you see one of those damned cactites go near by shirt, take off your heels and beat it to death!" he called after her. "I swear by the gods-even the ones I don't believe in-that if there is a single hole in it that I will spend the next two weeks killing every creature that draws breath on this bank."

"I'll watch," she comforted, walking further down the bank. Her eyes were locked on the sandy shores of the river, scanning the various plants that grew alongside its life giving waters. It must be a viera thing, to do this. Despite the fact that she was forced into being a Wood Warder during her time in Eruyt, she had a much more keen interest in the ways of the Salve Makers. Call her old fashioned, but the peace of nature was preferable to the drums of war, even now after she had found herself caught too many times in frays that would make even the toughest of bangaa squirm. She still found comfort in identifying little bits and pieces of flora and fauna, sometimes even stealing some away from their homes for use in remedies that would save them money (or a fine for shoplifting) later on in their ventures. She saw a semclam shell and picked it up, disturbing a peaceful and curious ichthon who squirmed from the sand and took to the air. The floating fish made a small squeaking sound at her, her reaching out a hand to touch it. It jerked away and shuddered, cruising down the bank with Fran merely standing there with a befuddled look on her face as she caught sight of something stuck on its tooth.

Something strangely familiar.

She looked back at Balthier, who was almost out of sight. She had wandered a bit too far, it seemed. Seeing he was done filling both their primary and secondary canteens, she waved her hand in the air to catch his attention. The second he looked up, curious as to what she wanted, he waved back as a signal he saw her. Nodding and pointing back to where the Strahl was anchored along the river, she cupped a hand around her mouth and called, "Bring me my bow!"

"Your what?" he responded. "Your bowl?"

She dropped her hands to her side and glared. That jackass.

"Bow!" she repeated, louder. "Or bring your gun! And some mudshot!"

"Which one?"

She scowled, and with growing frustration responded, "Just bring both!"

Balthier shrugged and jogged back to where the Stahl was anchored, picking his shirt up along the way. Slipping his arms through the sleeves, he skidded to a stop on the sand where they had laid their weapons. Being so accustomed to this area, and knowing most of the beasts along the banks of the river were quite friendly and tolerant of people, he supposed they had just brought their weapons down from the ship out of habit and not because they needed them. The canteens landed on the ground with a thud as he picked up his Fomalhaut and a pouch of various shots, gripping the bag of bullets in his teeth as he loaded up with her Sagittarius and a couple of onion arrows, the first he could get to.

It shocked Fran he could move so fast, weighed down with her bow and that ungodly gun of his. When he stopped in front of her and pitched her weapon and a handful of arrows at her feet, she had to stop herself from commending him on his ability to be a walking weapon rack. However, she didn't need to feed his already bloated ego. Deciding against compliments-or even thanks-she stooped down and grabbed her silvery weapon and the cheap arrows he had brought. They were simple and few in number, but it was an ichthon. She could probably fell it with her bare hands, though she didn't much like the thought of it. Far too torturous, she decided. An arrow through the skull should drop it quickly and without suffering.

"What do you need the bow for? Fishing? Hand bombs work better for that, though. Drop one in the water, and they all float to the surface."

Fran looked up at Balthier and blinked.

"Are you insinuating that I wish to waste arrows shooting fish?"

It took her a moment to realize that was exactly what she was doing. Granted that the ichthian beasts were literal flying fish who dwell over the land, floating through the air, but they were still fish. She decided against telling Balthier this; she'd merely pretend that they didn't count.

"If it's not fish, did you see something large? Dangerous? Rare strains are apparently getting more common," the pirate replied, raising a hand over his eyes and scanning the environment. She shouldered her bow and shook her head, placing arrows between her index, middle, and ring finger. She wished she could explain, but she was afraid of being labeled crazy.

"There's an ichthon," she finally stated. "It seemed special. I think there's something of value on it."

Balthier paused.

"You think a fish is carrying treasure?"

Never turning, she simply trekked forward, raising her bow and placing an arrow against the string. The spare one was placed in her mouth, her sweeping her hair out of her face in order to better see. Balthier slowly trudged behind her, curious yet keeping his distance. As he followed, he began to load his gun out of habit. He had grown accustomed to doing this while on the move: hold the pouch of shot and powder in your teeth, pull the ramrod from the muzzle, cut open a packet of black powder with your thumbnail, pour it down, discard the paper it was in, toss in the shot of your choice, pack it down, put the ramrod on your belt to keep it out of the way, pocket the pouch of shot, move the hammer from half- to full-cock, and wait. Fran had always been impressed with his prowess with guns, but he never understood why. Guns were easy. He'd much rather her be impressed by the fact he could still wield a sword as well as he could when he was decked out in Imperial armor and still wore the name "Ffamran."

Fran's movement picked up to a steady jog when she caught sight of that damnable fish. It had moved a good way down the coast, that bit of something in its jaws now more readily apparent. As it swam about in the air, green skin glistening and tail billowing like a proud flag, she squinted and tried to focus on what it was. She thought she had known when she first caught a glimpse, but perhaps it was her mind running away with her. It had to be.

Still, her curiosity wouldn't be sated until she knew for sure.

Balthier watched her curiously, trying hard not to be too fixated on her rather exposed posterior. He wouldn't be too mad at himself for letting his gaze drift down her back to her finely toned buttocks, but he was trying to pay attention. Sort of. The poor man was torn between admiring his partner and trying to figure out just what the hell she was doing. Knowing the viera, it wasn't treasure she spotted on the fish. Mayhap it had some special marking or trait that would make a couple of its scales fetch a good price at market, whenever they got back around to Balfonheim to trade it in along with their ill-gotten goods. Viera were strange like that, always treasuring the value of nature more than the value of gold. Not that she was ever wrong, that is. Whenever Fran skinned a beast, tore out a tooth, hollowed out a shell, or harvested claws, they always seemed to nab a lot more gil at the Balfonheim bazaar than Balthier would ever have imagined. The girl certainly knew quality when she saw it.

Well, that would explain why she was with him.

He smiled in spite of himself, shouldering his gun as he stopped a mere couple of yards from his very intent female. She seemed oblivious to all but the ichthon, which fluttered in the breeze ahead of them, making noises of alarm. It was still a bit spooked from her attempt to place a hand on it, the normally friendly creature strangely alert and hostile. She exhaled slowly and muttered a prayer to the gods, pulling back her bow string and slowly aiming. All was gone from her sight but that singular creature. The only thing she saw was that fish.

Balthier, however, saw something she was blind to. Catching sight of rippling water, he looked over into the river long enough to see strangely-split jaws sticking up out of the water, bits of woolly fur floating in the blue it was submerged in. He tilted his head and watched as the being glided effortlessly through the water, eyes widening when he realized exactly what it was that was gracing them with their presence.

A woolly gator. Even worse, a greeden. He knew that the damnable things were attracted to "new" things along the river banks, but he didn't know that they had been there long enough to catch its attention.

"Fran."

She didn't say a word in response.

"Fraaan," he repeated with growing urgency.

Nothing. She was deaf to all but her own thoughts. The greeden pulled itself from the water, its split top jaw spreading like butterfly wings and revealing glowing green eyes. Odd, ugly creatures, those woolly gators were. Odd and ugly, and pretty blatant when they had their sights set on something. It let out a rough grunt as it stomped its ugly, chicken-like feet on the sands, dragging its hefty frame just out of the water. Fran, normally alert, was far too distracted to notice that it seemed to be plotting the addition of rabbit stew to its menu, its green eyes fixated on her lithe form.

"Fran!"

The boom of his voice was enough to scare the ichthon who-having no place else to go as it was pressed against a rocky outcropping-screeched loudly and made a mad dash for Fran. The viera gasped and stumbled as the scaled beast zipped past her, and straight between Balthier and the greeden that had concerned him so. The gator suddenly seemed quite intrigued by Fran's prey himself, apparently preferring fish to game. Huffing and grunting, it turned after the fluttering fish and began to stomp after it with surprising speed, Fran finally noticing the presence of the behemoth beast that had been silently stalking her for the past couple of minutes. She seemed less bothered by the fact that it was present than the fact it was after her trophy, however.

With uncharacteristic fear in her voice, she roared, "Shoot it!"

Balthier nodded, aimed, and fired a single shot at the gator. It dug deep into its side, leaving a gaping hole that dyed its white fleece a deep red, singed with black from the gun powder. It let out a horrified roar, but kept after the ichthon. Obviously, to woolly gators, food was more important than most anything else. Perhaps men and beasts weren't so different after all. Fran, squeaking in panic, loaded her bow once more and fired an arrow that landed in the back of the gator's neck. It never stopped, obviously not even feeling the prick against its scales. Balthier cursed and began to quickly load his gun again, running barefoot through the sands after the damnable beast. He wasn't sure why this was so important, to stop the gator from eating the fish and thereby continuing the circle of life, but he cared enough about Fran to shoot first and ask questions later.

Well, actually that was just a pirate thing. Or maybe just a Balthier thing. Forgive him for trying to seem chivalrous.

Gun loaded. He fired another shot. The gator groaned, but it didn't stop him from catching up to the fish. The terrified ichthon let out a shriek as the furry fiend raised up on its hind legs and opened its three jaws wide, clamping down hard on its extravagant tail. Fran let out a cry of alarm from behind Balthier, an arrow zipping past his head and striking the gator in its raised snout. It punctured the shell-like covering over its top jaws and went straight through, the tip of the arrow coming out on the inside of its mouth. As it squalled and tore around, it ripped a sizable chunk of the fish's tail clear from its owner. The flying fiend squalled in agony and tried to burrow unsuccessfully into the sand in its state of confusion and terror, Balthier hurriedly loading yet another shot as Fran stood in the greeden's path, out of arrows and out of luck. She raised her hand in preparation for a spell, but given the speed of the gator it was likely it would get her before she had a chance to mutter a full incantation.

"Bloody hell..." he drawled in exasperation, racing after the lizard. He woke up early for this? This is exactly the reason he knew there shouldn't be a time before noon. If you're a morning person, you get attacked by alligators. It was that simple. One day, Fran would learn this lesson and sleep in with him. Then? Then all of Ivalice would be happy, and nobody would get eaten by a giant fur-bearing reptile.

Fomalhaut only partially loaded, the black powder and shot within its barrel but nothing packed down, he had to find a way to buy time. It was at that moment that he made arguably the worst mistake a man trying to save his woman could ever make: he decided his life was worth less than her own, and did something absolutely stupid. Muzzle of his gun and ramrod in one hand, pouch of shot in his mouth, and his bad hand free, he jumped at the alligator and grabbed a handful of fur on its hindquarters. It didn't notice at first, not until he gave it one hell of a tug. A handful of its wool came out in his hands, it letting out a squall and turning its damaged face towards the sky pirate that dare put a bald spot on its ass. Balthier only snarled at it, determined that this beast had overstepped its bounds despite the fact it was a wild creature with no idea what the hell it was doing aside from looking for food.

He was offended. How dare this beast decide that his Fran was lunch? He wasn't worthy of eating Fran. There were hundreds of creatures who deserved the privilege more than this ugly bastard, not that Balthier wanted Fran to be on anything's menu. Who did this greeden think he was? He wasn't cock of the walk. There was only one cock on this walk, and that was Balthier.

Okay, not the best analogy.

As it stomped after him, he briskly ran backwards, heaving breaths as he shoved the ramrod into the muzzle of his musket and packed the powder and shot as hard as he could possibly manage. In the back of his mind, he tried to remember what was behind him before he started moving this way, hoping to high heaven that there wasn't an inconveniently placed rock somewhere that would trip him up. Sneering as he skidded to a stop, he carefully aimed as the creature threw itself at him. Its jaws open wide, it made quite the show for a lowly water beast.

"Do you know who I am? I am Balthier-bloody-Bunansa, dread sky pirate! And that woman is not yours to eat!"

A single shot. Scatters of flesh, fur, bone, and shell-like carapace. The greeden didn't even let out a death groan, merely falling to its side just short of possibly taking his leg. Straightening his shirt and smoothing his hair, he stood over the creature and glared down at it with a mixture of annoyance and irrational hate.

"Not yours to eat. Mine!"

He stopped when he realized he sounded like a child. A... very perverse child. Clearing his throat and looking up at the slowly approaching Fran, he smiled wide and gestured at the carcass of the gator.

"It's dead."

"I see that," Fran stated with nary a thank-you. "Where is the fish?"

Balthier glanced over his shoulder, watching as the partially-covered animal wallowed weakly in the sand before laying perfectly still. It was nowhere near fully covered, but the idiotic little thing thought that if it couldn't see its attacker, then it was equally invisible. Balthier began to reload his musket, but was stopped by a wave of Fran's hand as she slowly approached the beast. She dropped to her knees next to the terrified thing, hand glowing green as she uttered an incantation of some sort. Cure, he realized, when he saw the exposed, torn tip of the ichthon's tail mesh back together before his very eyes. Carefully, she brushed away the sand from its face, the beast lifting its head to look at its viera savior.

She got a good look at its mouth, daring to put her hand next to it. The ichthon made no move to bite her. She turned its head and examined its maw until she saw what she had been curious about the entire time. She plucked it up in shock, slowly rising to her feet and letting her Sagittarius fall from her grip and thud to the sandy banks. Holding her treasure to the sun, she examined it. A hardy, rough plant-roots and all-that began as a deep black in the shadow, but shone like mother-of-pearl in the light. The thorns were dulled, but the plant was still quite new and quite healthy. Why, if Fran had a pot and some soil, she could very well replant the thing.

They had a cup, and dirt was all over Ivalice. She figured she'd do just that.

"What is it?" Balthier asked wearily, not fully understanding the look of absolute joy on Fran's face. He had never seen her grin so wide, nor had he ever seen that peculiar sparkle in her eyes. A million thoughts seemed to race in her mind, so many that it seemed to drown out his simple inquiry.

"What is it?" he repeated, to no response. This prompted him to place a hand on his hips as he stood over the greeden's corpse, repeating quickly and constantly a rather impatient chorus of, "What is it what is it what is it?"

She finally seemed to come back to reality when Balthier had nearly lost his breath, demanding to know what it was. A new spring in her step and the joy on her normally stoic face almost terrifying, she walked to her sky-pirating beau and placed a hand on both of his shoulders. The frazzled Hume looked up with a cocked brow, only to be met with the most powerful kiss he had managed to get from Fran as of late. Whatever this plant was, it was obviously a very strong aphrodisiac.

Obviously.

"As much as I won't complain about that, that didn't answer my question," he stated after fumbling with his words a bit. Fran only pulled him close in a hug, squealing like a teenage girl, "It's a Mesmer Bramble!"

"Riiiight," he drawled, shifting his weight uneasily within her death grip. "I don't know what that is."

"It's a miracle!" she announced.

Balthier blinked. No, the only miracle would be if he didn't suffocate before he made it back to the Strahl. He had never been so confused in his life, not since he met Fran in Balfonheim and learned she was a mechanic of all things. No, actually this was more comparable to experiences with his father, when he thought Venat was some fancy invisible friend and used to try to follow conversations between the then-unknown Occuria and the late Bunansa elder. He laid his head on her shoulder, more of an attempt to bury his face and groan than any show of affection.

After today, he was never waking up early again. Ever.

Hell, he might sleep until one from now on.


	3. Not Bees, Honey

She didn't expect him to understand, to be honest. It was just that she saw this as a sign from the gods. To find a Mesmer Bramble outside of a viera grove was a rarity that bordered on absolutely impossible. They were the plant equivalent of dewdrop pebbles: beautiful gifts from the Wood to her people, never meant to leave the guardianship of the viera upholders of the Green Word. How the bramble managed to survive in the world of Humes, it was unsure. How the ichthon got it and didn't crush and kill it in its jaws, she would never know.

She did know that this plant was one of the grand secrets of the viera.

There was a reason that viera born outside the Wood never lived as long as viera born within. Outsider "viera" were about as long-lived as Humes, and their lack of longevity was oft to be attributed to never being cradled and blessed by the Wood. At least this is what scholars claimed. Scholars, however, never stepped foot within a viera village, and the few clever enough to manage often made it back with more arrows in their back than nuggets of wisdom in their head. They rattled off their viera theories, outsider viera buying it due to not knowing better, while those who left the Wood to begin with merely kept their mouths shut out of fear of what would happen if the secret got out. The last thing the viera people wished to be responsible for was the spread of knowledge of lasting youth to Humes. Their world was already so fragile, and the widespread knowledge would merely break it.

The viera, to be true, were naturally about as long lived as your average man. The Wood, however, graced its children with mysterious powers and bounties the likes of which the outside world would never have guessed. Salve-makers, in particular, were granted authority over the Mesmer Bramble. It was a strange vine, covered in thorns and oil with a luster to it the likes of which could be better attributed to a shell or gem. Its function was simple: it absorbed Mist from the air. Seeing as viera were so sensitive to it, this was a blessing of the Wood to keep them safe from madness and in everlasting peace. The Bramble served a secondary function, however.

Fran had once told Vaan, a couple of years back, that "the time given viera is long." It probably would have been more accurate to have said, "the time given viera by viera is long."

Mesmer Bramble, rich with the mist it absorbed, had a very potent effect when mixed with other powerful ingredients. A tea made of these items would be served to a viera on their first adult year-seventeen to their people-and the strange concoction, full of magics, effectively slowed the aging of the individual from then-on. It was called "Gifting" to the viera, a sacred ritual said to have been created by the Wood to ensure that its children were around for as long as possible to uphold the Green Word. In her absence from the Wood and Eruyt, Fran had merely figured that it was caused by a peculiar and long-lasting variant of Slowga on the body. A very long lasting variant, probably about as long lasting as Bergan's nethicite bones would have lasted had he not been killed.

By no means did Gifting make one immortal, though. Sure, those who partook of the Gift could live up to two, three, or four times longer than the average Hume, but it only seemed to work for so long. Aging would slow to a crawl, and for a majority of a viera's life they would appear to be in their twenties or-at the very eldest-their early to mid thirties. Then, as the viera edged towards their final phase, the Mist from the Mesmer Bramble would find itself spent at long last. Aging would return to normal and grip the viera, and they would steadily decline until they were sent off to die in the Wood as victims of old age or the horrors of the forests. Beyond that, a viera affected by the Mist could be killed. Fran had never seen a Slow spell keep one from an untimely demise.

Sitting in the cabin and staring at her newly planted bramble, she smiled weakly and brushed her fingertips against its leaves. Since meeting Balthier (or, more accurately, since falling in love with him) she had often wondered what it would be like if he could last as long as she did. She knew the two of them had joked about dying before Fran had the chance to outlive him, presumably in a fiery airship crash, but she had never much liked the sound of it half as much as having Balthier around for the rest of her natural life. Try as she might to drive the thought from her mind, she could not. Now it seemed like the gods were giving her a definite sign that it was meant to be.

Jote had once said the Wood was jealous of the Humes that took its daughter. Mayhap it got over the jealousy. Mayhap the Wood knew what good Fran did for the world and decided to gift her with something special. Oh, she had a thousand explanations for how this plant wound up in her care, all of which she'd be equally pleased with.

Would he accept the Gift? She didn't see why not. She hoped so. She perceived him as being the type to not turn down the chance to live a bit longer, and her perceptions had a very high accuracy rating. She tenderly brushed the leaves and smiled to herself, mentally noting what else it was she would need to hunt down for this occasion. She could not harvest from Eruyt, that was certain. However, she had to be able to find the other ingredients scattered across Ivalice in her past ventures...

"That must be one interesting plant. You've been staring at it for hours," a voice called. Fran jumped and looked back, watching as her debonair partner scratched at the side of his nose and straightened his shirt cuffs. He had ditched his vest on this fine day, with the excuse that it was too hot to overdress. He still wore that collared shirt, the top two buttons undone to reveal the top of his chest and a green magicite pendant at the end of a long silver chain held around his neck. His hair, finally smoothed and combed, looked less like that of a madman and more like that of a dashing sky rogue. Brown eyes met crimson, Balthier snorting a laugh as the two stared at one another in silence.

"Because you've been staring at it for hours, the Strahl has not moved from the Estersand. Would my co-pilot like to make an appearance, or should I just start practicing hopping between the two seats to do both of our jobs?"

"Hop. I'm thinking," she instructed. Balthier raised an eyebrow and snorted a laugh. He turned to the cockpit, waving dismissively over his shoulder.

"Fine then. Don't forget we share a bed. Don't forget that I'm quite unforgiving."

His words were motivational. In the same manner he joined her that morning, no sooner had he taken his seat did she saunter from the cabin and take her own. She flicked the switches for the engine and nodded as she grabbed the steering column, Balthier laughing at the fact that she had listened so well. Honestly, he had no idea what he could do while asleep that would be considered "unforgiving." The worst he had ever done was roll Fran off the bed when he pulled a sheet from under her, though that had been years ago and, thankfully, hadn't been spoken of since. What could he say? He was young, he was stupid. It was the first time he ever occupied a bed with a woman. She didn't need the damned blanket, and he never knew there was such a thing as bed etiquette...

"Do you have any idea where we're going?"

She mulled on this for a second, then glanced over at Balthier and smiled. Her good mood was starting to creep him out, honestly. He wasn't used to this, and it was almost suspicious. What on earth was she planning? Was mutiny in his future? What the hell did that plant do? It had to have had some sort of hallucinogen in it. He thought on getting up to go lick the thing, just to test this theory.

"No offense, Fran, but are you under the influence of dubious substances?" Balthier blurted with a blink. "If so, I'm offended you wouldn't share the experience."

"Oh, I'll share. In time," she responded, almost giddy. The sky pirate watched the viera with a raised brow as she flicked on a whole row of switches, the engines roaring to life at full power. The sound was so deafening that he almost couldn't hear himself think. Rubbing the back of his neck and rolling his eyes, he merely huffed, "Okay, then. Apparently, you do know where we're going. Coordinates?"

"Archades."

He sputtered, glaring at the woman in disbelief.

"Archades? Seriously? You said Rabanastre not two hours ago! Why Archades?" he demanded. "If you haven't realized, I make a mental note every morning when I wake up not to go to that dreadful place, for both personal and professional reasons. Not to mention sanitary reasons."

She paid no mind to his complaints, scratching her ear and tossing her hair over her shoulder as she simply inquired, "Are there bees in Archades?"

"Bees...?"

"Bees. You know what a bee is, do you not?"

"I... I know good damn well what a bee is but why are you...?"

"Are there bees in Archades?"

"Yes. I would imagine there are bees everywhere where the temperature permits," he responded in disbelief, a bit taken aback that he was even answering this question. Fran had lost her bloody mind, he knew it. At long last, the girl had finally went loopy. He looked down at his controls and fumbled with the steering column for a second, clearing his throat as he announced, "Well, I guess we go to Archades. For... bees."

"Honey," she corrected.

"For... honey?"

"I need it," she said, regaining her serious tone. Balthier nodded slowly and turned away, letting out an exasperated sigh as he tried to shake some coherent thought into his head. That plant had definitely done something to his lovely partner, that was for sure. Aphrodesiac, or hallucinogenic drug of pure euphoria that prompted strange cravings? He couldn't decide which. Pressing a button that sent the Strahl lurching forth, he cleared his throat.

"So. We're on our way to Archades. Leaving the damned country to get some honey we could damn well get in Rabanastre. Or anywhere, I'd assume."

"I need Archadian honey," she stated plainly.

"Why do you-?"

"Do bees build hives in Tsenoble?"

"I wouldn't know tha-"

"You are from Tsenoble, aren't you?"

"Yes, I was born in the Tsenoble District in Archades, but I don't see what that has to do wi-"

"We'll check Tsenoble then. Mayhap somebody there keeps bees as a hobby, or forgot to knock a hive from their eaves."

"Have you lost your damned mind, woman?"

Fran slowly eased the Strahl to turn it in the direction of Archades, glancing up at a blinking green light that foretold whether or not they were ready to go. As soon as it stopped, ceasing its flickering as it prepped itself, she twisted a knob that sent the ship forth so fast that Balthier was slammed back in his seat. Overdrive? Why the hell would she put it in overdrive?

"I'm quite sane," she stated, after she saw Balthier had steadied himself. Eyes wide, he took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. Swallowing hard, he simply muttered, "I'm beginning to doubt that."

* * *

She knew he thought she was crazy, and quite frankly she didn't care. She had the key ingredient, but she needed a handful of others to make the elixir that would ensure Balthier's survival throughout her years. However, given how surly he was acting at the moment, having been dragged to Archades on a "fool's errand," she was beginning to doubt whether or not she would go through with it. As she clip-clopped in her heels, jogging across Nilbasse to the cab, he trudged along behind her with their sandalwood chop in his hand, tapping it against his temple as he seemed to mutter to himself in quiet contemplation. Not long ago, Balthier had bemoaned the fact his father spoke to somebody who didn't exist. Now the pirate was guilty of the same thing.

Honey made of the flowers of one's place of birth was a necessity. He didn't understand, not that he would given the fact she hadn't even told him about it yet. She briefly wondered why she hadn't brought it up, realizing that perhaps she had just been far too excited. She'd have to let him in on the secret, eventually. If anything, she'd tell him in order to put him a bit at ease about her current change in demeanor. The stench of concern was pungent with him, detectable even from yards away. He obviously cared for her and worried for her mental state, and she felt a pang of guilt for putting him through this.

As she neared the cabbie, she stopped and waited for him to catch up. She'd need his chop if she were to be granted entrance into Tsenoble, given that she didn't have one of her own. As he caught up, he didn't even acknowledge her. Still lost in thought, he strode past her to the cabbie who stood perfectly erect on the ledge next to his tiny airship, almost like a soldier standing next to his parked flagship. Flashing the wooden tablet engraved with gold, he sighed loud enough for all to hear, "Tsenoble. The rabbit's with me."

Rabbit? She crinkled her nose and followed behind him as the cabbie nodded and opened the door, Balthier climbing inside and taking his seat first. She slipped in behind him, taking a seat beside him though she kept her distance. It wasn't that she was offended over the "rabbit" quip, it was that she was suddenly very worried he was mad at her. She knew he didn't like Archades-hating Tsenoble the worst-but he shouldn't be acting like this. Should he? Seeing his hand placed between the two of them in the middle seat, she reached out her own and placed it on top of his. He jumped and looked over, quite expressionless until she intertwined her fingers with his and smiled. He smiled back, seeming to forget his aggravation briefly. She slowly lifted the window between the back and the front to keep the cabbie from hearing her words, though she wasn't sure if it was soundproof. Perhaps she would just take up the meat of the matter with Balthier when they were back on the Strahl.

"You've been acting strange," he stated with a slight laugh, his cocky expression never hiding his concern. She often told him that his eyes betrayed his heart; he was good at masking his emotions via his arrogant smile, but he had possibly the most expressive eyes that she had ever seen in a Hume. He couldn't hide his emotions from her even if he tried. His eyes were windows into his mind that gave every last one of his thoughts away.

"I have my reasons," she replied bluntly. "The plant is a very special, sacred plant. I fear I am about to defile the Wood with my plans, but the Wood seems as though it will understand. From afar, it has gifted its forgotten daughter. I shall make use of its gift, and it shall answer my pleas of the past."

"Oh? What pleas? I've never heard you plead to anything."

"My pleas that perhaps a fiery explosion won't mark the end of our affair," she responded weakly, tightening her grip on his hand. He stared silently at her, cocking his head with a bit of worry. Knowing Balthier, he had probably immediately construed a hundred possible meanings behind that sentence. He was always like that, looking at every possible outcome and reading far too deep into what she said. She had learned it was because he worried of looking stupid; it's hard to be accused of not understanding when you know every possible meaning behind what a person says.

"It is far less painful than a flaming death," Fran comforted. Balthier raised an eyebrow.

"Is this the beginning of a suicide pact or something?" he slowly asked.

"If I say yes, what would you say?" she curiously responded. Balthier shrugged, answering, "Well, I was gonna ask if we could wait until I started going through my mid-life crisis. That'd give us... what? Twenty-some more years before we end up feeding worms?"

"You would honestly kill yourself? You? Balthier?" she asked incredulously. "I thought you loved yourself too much."

"Some things I love more," he answered, gazing out the window. She edged a bit closer to him, him looking from the view to his partner.

"If it's any consolation, my plans with the Bramble won't kill either of us," she comforted. "In fact, it will be quite beneficial. I can't decide which of us will benefit from it moreso, however."

Benefits? He liked the sound of that. Benefits were good, always good, and always welcome. Though he was a bit lost as to what this would do, he liked the idea of something nice happening rather than this turning out to be some sort of poison. He could imagine the headlines across Dalmasca and Archades if that were to happen. Oh, Ba'Gamnan would have nothing left to do with his life. You know, on second thought poison seemed kind of alluring...

No. No, he didn't hate the bangaa enough to take away his life's purpose.

The cab stopped, the cabbie opening the door with a nod behind him. He seemed a bit shaken, his face contorted with sorrow and terror; obviously he had heard some of their conversation. Fran nodded a thank-you to the man and climbed out onto the high, brick lanes of Tsenoble with her head bowed in embarrassment. Great, now a Hume other than Balthier undoubtedly thought her mad. Balthier, in contrast, seemed terribly amused with the fact the cabbie had obviously heard them planning a suicide pact in the backseat. As he stepped out of the tiny airship and onto the ledge of the stories-up walkway, he waited quietly biting his bottom lip for the cab to hover off. Once it was out of sight, him watching it go, a small chuckle emerged from him.

Which ended up as gales of laughter. Falling against his stoic viera partner, he wound up guffawing so hard that tears rolled down his cheeks and he almost hit the ground. The gentry of Tsenoble present stopped to stare at him in shock, horror, and amusement, Fran's face flushing red.

"What's so funny?" she finally asked, trying hard to not let the humiliation get to her. Straightening himself up and wiping tears from his eyes, he struggled to stop his laughter.

"What's so funny? Did you see his face?"

The thought alone seemed to cause him to lose it again, Fran standing perfectly still and staring down at him with a baffled expression. Always such a child on the inside, this one, though he'd never admit it. Must have been a Hume male thing. No matter how suave and dashing they typically behaved, the lot of them had their juvenile tendencies. Just like now, with Balthier's rather embarrassing laughing fit.

And this man thought he had the right to call her crazy.


	4. Damn It, Jules

Solemn news indeed. He gazed at his chops that he had swindled from the young Dalmascan boy a couple of years back, before looking back at the cabbie that had brought him this far with a grave nod. Ffamran mied Bunansa may have been a jackass, a pompous jerk who had oft felt the most gratified when knocking the streetear's jaw out of line, but he had always fancied the man as the closest he ever got to a friend. Word traveled fast, and when a cabbie on the Tsenoble route had been overheard in the local pub regaling the tale of his experience with the dread sky pirate "Balthier," who sat with his forbidden lover in the back of his cab plotting a gruesome suicide, it took hardly any time at all for the words to reach his ever-alert ears.

The sighting of Balthier came a mere couple of hours before, but sneaking past Old Archades--even with chops--was quite difficult. Hopefully he was not too late. The last sighting of Ffamran was in Tsenoble.

"Move, knave!" a young brat called, shoving him aside. Jules sniffed and stuck out his leg, tripping the scamp before he had ample time to get away. The blond boy hit the ground with a squeak of alarm, before letting out squalling sobs as he rolled on his back and showed off his newly scraped knee. His father, in the distance, ran over to grab his son up off the ground, glaring daggers at Jules as though trying to challenge him to a fight. Jules only smiled, responding to the look with, "Oi have a feelin' yo' kid ain't nevah gon' be no dancah, aye? Two left feet."

"Shouldn't you be in _Old_ Archades?" the father responded indignantly. Jules shrugged.

"Prolly. I ain't done wit' mah business up 'ere, though. Do me a favah, aye? Keep yo' brat out my way."

He paused after a few steps past the man, turning on his heel and inquiring, "Say, ya ain't 'appened t'see a pirate-type, eh? Maybe wit' a viera?"

"A viera?" the man asked dumbly. Oh, so gentry were apparently so sheltered they hadn't seen anything besides Humes and the occasional bangaa. A bit flustered, Jules raised his hands up to the top of his head to simulate ears and jutted his hip off to the side to try and mimic the saucy pose he had seen Fran pull during the few brief times he had happened to lay eyes on her beautiful form. He knew he probably looked like a fool, but he was _Jules_ for the love of the gods. He was an idiot, he knew it, and he cared not what the gentry thought of him.

"Ya know, big ol' eahs?"

"Eahs?" the man echoed, baffled. Jules clapped his hands together atop his head, impersonating a flop rabbit twitching its ears.

"Ya know! Eahs! Eahs!"

"Ears, you mean?"

"Yeah, those! Viera got 'em big ol' eahs, an' 'ey always be of the feminine pe'suasion, an' 'ey got really long ahms, an' 'ey git real tall-like!"

The man stood up next to his son and simply pointed behind Jules, who slowly turned to face the opposite direction. What he got an eyeful of was both a shock and a welcome surprise, as his nose was basically stuck in the ample, leather clad bosom of a rather tanned lady who smelled of sweets and flowers. Blinking and slicking back his dark, unkempt hair, he smiled wide and--eyes still fixated on breasts--welcomed the yet unidentified lady with a simple, "Why, 'ello."

"You have ten seconds to get your nose out of there, before I break it."

Okay. Now that was a voice Jules recognized. He leaned to the side, past the apparent stalker, watching as the pirate that he had been searching for slowly rolled up his sleeves and approached. Jules swallowed hard and jumped back, looking up to see that the lovely lady he had been gawking at was none other than Fran, who seemed disgusted and baffled by his attempt to hold a conversation with her breasts. Clearing his throat and offering a weak wave, the street rat did the only thing he _could_ do in this situation.

"I di'nt mean it, I sweah on my motha's name!"

"I'll show you, 'didn't mean it,'" Balthier growled, but before he could get too close he saw something in Jules' eyes that he didn't _expect_ to see: a sudden wave of sorrow. The pirate, baffled, dropped his fist and raised an eyebrow, asking slowly, "Did something happen, Jules?"

The streetear practically bounded from where he stood to Balthier in a single leap, hitting him with a force so strong that the pirate hit the ground with an "OOF" loud enough to, once again, garner the attention of every noble in the area. The pirate originally thought he was under attack, screaming a curse and trying to wrestle his arms free. It took him a few more seconds to realize Jules was holding him in a bear hug, blabbering some nonsense that was barely recognizable due to tears. For whatever reason, this was somewhat more terrifying, and only seemed to motivate him to try harder to escape. Kicking and flailing and squalling at Fran curses and demands to get the rat off of him, Balthier was sure he made a spectacle of himself. He didn't care. Reputation was far less important than getting away from the creepy gossip who now clung at him like a child hanging onto its mother.

Jules was _wailing_. The sound was enough to make Fran pull down her ears and pin them against the side of her head in an effort to shield herself from the noise, and even then she could hear it. She winced, his voice going from baritone to soprano in the blink of an eye, wavering between "manly tears" and "scared little girl." And oh, how he wept. When Balthier was less concerned about kicking his old rival off of him, he'd be _very_ concerned with the tear stains all over his good shirt. And the dirt. There was a fair amount of dirt on the road.

"Jules! Bloody hell! What is wrong with you?" Balthier screamed, sounding like a wildcat with its paw caught in a hunter's trap.

"C'mon now, Ffamran! You the last Bunansa!"

"Jules! _Jules!_ Let go of... OW! My hair! Get your damned hand out of my... OW!"

"Ya don' need t'be goin' 'bout things 'is way, Ffamran! Yo' th'closest thing I got to a friend, and I don' wanna lose ya, mate!"

"Jules, unhand me this instant or I'll be the _friend that breaks your bloody leg if you don't get it away from there!"_

"Ffamran! Don' leave me alone, mate!"

_"I will blow your brains all over the bloody pavement, I swear to god."_

"FFAMRAAAAN. C'mon, mate, least stay 'round to carry th'family name, aye?"

"The way you talk makes me think you have delusions of being the mother to my children," Balthier hissed, finally wriggling an arm free and grabbing Jules by the throat. "I am _not_ lavender, so while I am _flattered_ by this show of admiration, I must offer you a polite thanks-but-no-thanks and ask you to _get the bloody hell off of me before I kill you_."

"I love you, mate," Jules whimpered. Balthier's eyebrow raised, and a horrified expression became readily apparent on his face.

"Oh, wow. I knew I was godly, but I never would have guessed..." Balthier paused, shook his head and quickly corrected, "Okay, maybe I _did_ guess. That doesn't change the fact that I am growing annoyed."

The streetear, still blubbering, fell limp on top of Balthier with the pirate's hand still clasped around his throat. Balthier managed to squirm away, letting loose of Jules and shaking himself off. Gazing down at the streetear, then the gathering crowd, Balthier somehow managed to maintain his cool. Clearing his throat and straightening his posture, he looked at Fran with his head high and announced, "I guess you have the single most irresistible man in Ivalice."

"I suppose so," was her only response, as she walked over to the bawling Jules and nudged him with her foot. As soon as her toes made contact with him, he lashed out and grabbed her leg, cuddling up to it with tears still welling in his eyes.

"C'mon, Fraaaaaan. You talk summink into that 'ead o' 'is."

"You let go of her leg before I put something in _your_ head," Balthier growled. "Jules, what the bloody hell? I didn't come all the way to this forsaken hellhole, minding my step around these pompous asses, just to have some sewer-smelling street rat who bloody _screams my name to the heavens_ tackle me in the middle of Tsenoble!"

"Aye," he sniffed, seeming to concede defeat. "Aye, I understand. I'll miss ya when yo' gone, mate."

What? Balthier stared dumbly at the streetear and tried to form something that could be construed as speech. However, he was too busy only pronouncing the first syllable of every thought that ran through his head to form a coherent string of words. Fran shook her leg, casting Jules off to the side as gently as she could. Her and her pirate exchanged glances, Balthier torn between laughing about the situation and punching Jules in the gut.

"Oi, when will ya have the fun'ral?"

"Funeral?" Balthier echoed.

"An' what ya want on the headstone, mate? 'Balthier'? I'd much ratha you go by yo' real name. At least if'n ya gots 'Ffamran mied Bunansa' writ on it, you git one of them big ol' fancy burials, wot wit' yo' fatha an' all."

Whispers about them. Balthier was suddenly very uncomfortable, his formerly calm demeanor lost as he looked at Fran and announced in a sing-song voice, "I guess we best be leaving, Fran."

Fran paid him no mind, rather leaning down to Jules and tilting her head in a sort of puppy-like way. He sniffed and gazed at her. It was obvious what had happened. Word travels fast in Archades, and a cabbie speaks to a lot of people in the course of a couple of hours. Smiling, she patted him on the head like a child (in the back of her mind, that's honestly all she could think of him as) and muttered the sweet words, "We're not going to die, Jules."

"You're not?" he whimpered.

"No. Bal... _Ffamran_ is far too proud of a man to ever shuffle himself off of the mortal coil of his own volition. It would take a force stronger than he to rid Ivalice of his presence. Judging from the fact that Judge Ghis, Judge Bergan, the elder Bunansa, Vayne Solidor, and even the explosion and crash of the flagship Bahamut weren't powerful enough to crush him, one could assume that he will be around for a long, _long_ time."

"Quit being nice to him," Balthier barked. Fran calmly continued to stroke Jules' hair, never facing him as she responded, "Fighting with this man is like fighting with a child, _Ffamran_. I thought you were above hitting children."

"Stop calling me that," the pirate pouted. Fran ceased and stood up to her feet, shooting evil stares at each of the gentry that still hung idly about. Almost fearful for their own well being, each and every one of them scampered away. Whispers still floated amongst them. What was this strange Old Archadian doing in Tsenoble? Was that really a viera? The prodigal son back a second time? Did he really say "Balthier?" Would that make Ffamran Bunansa a famous sky pirate? Should we call the guard? Their voices were all too clear in Fran's ears, and she felt her stomach twist. These people were disgusting gossips. She had the right mind to blow the place sky-high with one well-aimed scathe mote.

"What're ya doin' back heah, if'n not to make ol' Jules look like a fool?" the streetear hiccuped, sorrow replaced by a bit of embarrassment and a hint of anger. Balthier crossed his arms over his chest and huffed a sigh, replying, "You do well to make yourself look a fool. You were the one who tackled me, remember? It was right after you almost suffocated in Fran's _assets._"

"Oi, I di'nt do no suffocatin'!" barked Jules, sobbing gone though remnants of tears still stained his face. "An' fo'give a guy for carin', eh? I thought mah best bloke was gonna off 'imself fo' some viera tart!"

"If you think I'm your close friend, you are sadly mistaken. As a side note, calling my significant other a 'tart' is hardly the way to win a place close to my heart."

"Ach, I di'nt mean it like 'at. 'Sides, even if ya don't count yo's truly as a close friend of yo's, yo' th'closest thing I gots to a friend. Least yo' the only one who still talks to me. Not many wanna share a tale wit' the ol' streetear, aye?"

"People don't want to talk to you?" Balthier asked, feinting surprise. "I wonder why."

Jules brushed himself off and grunted. Typical Ffamran, that was for sure. Ever since they were kids, when the old Tsenoble boy would sneak down to Old Archades to play in the safer caverns of Sochen Cave Palace, right where the lift was, he had been like this. Ffamran seemed to forget that, as a child, he was a target of the jealous, older boys who were stuck impoverished down in the old city. He got chased every which way, with sticks and brooms and rocks and fists. Who was it that stepped in and saved his hind-end? Jules! Who was it that taught him to throw a punch? Jules! Hell, at sixteen right before he fled his position as a Judge and stole his airship, who was the one who had the code for the lock on the hangar? Jules! He owed Jules a lot more than he expected, and he seemed to underestimate just how much the pirate meant to him.

Jules had no family in his youth. Ffamran was family. Ffamran was like the indignant little brother, who soon grew to be the accomplished older brother who was ashamed of his kin. He supposed Ffamran still gave two sniffs about him, considering the fact that they even still talked. Well, that and the fact that he didn't beat his brains in for eying up his lovely lady. Even so, a little respect was all he asked. A _little respect_. Was that too much? To have Ffamran address him like a human being instead of a street urchin?

Okay, so maybe all the times Jules swindled him or those he knew kind of contributed to this treatment. Still, stealing some chops and spreading word about his return wasn't too bad, was it? Was it? No... of course not.

"Here," Balthier offered reluctantly, handing his handkerchief to the poor fellow. "Dry yourself. Then give it back. If I see you blow your nose in it, you're the one buying me a new one."

Jules denied with a wave of his hand, sighing, "I jus' dunno what would bring ya back. You o'viously 'ate Archades. Yet you keep comin' on back."

"Honey," Fran sighed despondently. "We came to look for honey, made in Tsenoble. Be it from shopkeeper's stall, or hive built on the underside of a shop's eaves."

"No luck, eh?"

"None," Balthier muttered, stuffing his rag back in his pocket.

"Y'know, 'ey say 'at the Emperor Larsa 'as beehives," Jules stated with a smile. "Fresh 'oney fo' the Solidor, an' wotnot. I 'eard you know the Emperor, though I can't say if'n its a rumah or not. Do ye know 'im?"

Balthier considered carefully, then nodded. He knew Larsa well enough, he supposed. Penelo and Vaan had known him the best, being the closest to his age, but Balthier was a very strong _acquaintance_ with the Emperor. So much so that if felt odd calling the kid "Emperor." He would always remain Lord Larsa in Balthier's mind, the one who helped them in Paramina Rift to the best of his abilities, and seemed absolutely awestruck when Fran took them to Eruyt Village. He was the one Balthier and Fran had to escort through Henne Mines, and the one Fran had to protect from the horrible wyrm summoned by Mjrn. Their hike from Jahara to Mt. Bur-Omisace took a good _three weeks_ to do, with Fran and Balthier relaying secrets and stories to the young boy in order to sate his curiosity of the duo. He was undoubtedly the only one who ever picked up that they were a couple, too. That much was known because Larsa had pulled him aside and flat-out asked him if he felt "strange" having a "girlfriend" who was a good half a foot taller than him.

Which led to a conversation that made Balthier most uncomfortable because he felt as though he'd end up explaining the birds and the bees to the twelve-year-old son of the then-Emperor, Gramis. Certainly it wasn't _his_ place to teach the boy such lessons. Though, in retrospect, it would have been funny for the boy to have gone home and spewed everything he learned to the house keepers.

"We know Larsa," Balthier replied. "Smart kid. Good kid. Never gave me any trouble."

"'En why don't you go an' ask 'im fo' some? I'm sure he wouldn't mind."

"Would you kindly explain to me how you expect us to get to..."

"Cloak the Strahl and fly," Fran interrupted. Balthier glanced over at the viera skeptically, responding, "Oh, that's just brilliant. Where would we park?"

"Ya could pahk next t'a window," Jules suggested. "Climb in, notify Larsa of yo' presence, an' 'en pull yo' ship 'round."

"You must admit that he'd expect such a feat from us," Fran agreed. "I could do this. It would not be difficult."

Balthier sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes. He could feel a migraine coming. Ooooh, it was going to be a big one. He didn't _want_ to do this, but he couldn't tell Fran no. She was so dead-set on whatever it was she was doing, and to deny her this one boon would break her poor heart. Besides, there really was no danger. Basch was the new Gabranth, and Larsa was close enough to the duo to write them the occasional letter that he left with a correspondent in Balfonheim. If they made an impromptu visit, it was doubtful they'd get in too much trouble. It'd be the same as dropping in on Vaan and Penelo. Right?

... Right?

"To the aerodome," he huffed. "Now, Fran! Before I change my mind."

She smiled and sauntered off to catch a cab, Balthier clenching his fist and shaking his head as he glared at Jules. The streetear merely grinned in response, not reacting when he old pal looked him dead in the eyes and mouthed the words, "I hate you."

------

**OH HI: Yes, an accent he doesn't have. Jules, I mean. I DON'T KNOW. I kinda felt jipped that he didn't have the good ol' Old Archades cockney thing goin', y'know?**


	5. Awkward Scenario

Being locked in a chamber with a room full of panicking maids wasn't too bad, was it? Balthier pressed himself against the door, listening to clanking metal suits out in the hallways as the call of "INTRUDER" rang throughout the palace. Fran desperately tried to keep the panicked housekeepers as quiet as mice. Whenever the viera would get too close, however, they'd shriek like children and shirk back with brooms and dusters in hand, prepped to use them as impromptu weapons against the "attackers." The guards outside hustled and bustled, the halls filled with their threats and orders.

This? This was not good. This was far from good. This was nightmarish.

Things would have been okay, had Balthier known the place was full of more Imperial personnel than Draklor, Dreadnought Leviathan, and Bahamut combined. If he had known that, he would have told Fran "no" and scaled buildings in Tsenoble to find her damned honey, and all of this could have been avoided. All of this. This was crazy. This was stupid. This was...

This was stupidly crazy. Or crazily stupid. Whichever floated your boat.

"Out of morbid curiosity, what other ingredients do you need if we get out of here?" Balthier asked, arms spread wide against the door with his feet planted firmly on the ground as he leaned his weight into it. Fran considered, tapping her lips. She waved her finger as though to indicate a direction, stating, "The ears of a dreamhare, throat wolf blood, some must from a rare strain of basilisk, six pinches of stardust, two malboro flowers, unpurified ether, and a couple of sticks of white incense. Along with some herbs and plants."

He blinked.

"So, we need to fight bunnies, dogs, and snakes? You mean to tell me that gathering HONEY is the most dangerous part of this little quest of yours?"

"I had no idea that we would have to ask Larsa for some," she replied. "I had no idea that it would be so hard to get to a kid that we know."

"I hear them! They're in here!" a voice boomed from outside. Fran's ears twitched as she and Balthier stared at each other, Balthier's eyes wide in terror as he braced himself for the coming impact. Fran, however, was much less concerned. If anything, she was intrigued. Stepping away from the maids, who all seemed to squawk and scatter like hens, she slowly approached the door. She could have, and probably should have, instructed Balthier to move. However, the words didn't slip out of her mouth fast enough. There was a loud bang, cracking wood, and Balthier flipped forward like he was launched out of a catapult. Going head-over-heels, he landed with a loud crack and hiss of pain on his back in the middle of the floor, clutching the back of his head and quite thankful that he didn't feel blood. He looked up at Fran (a nice view) and grunted before flopping back, raising his hands over his head as he remained sprawled on the tile, never looking as he sighed, "Oh, alright. You caught me. I know it's not Nalbina again, since its no longer yours, so you better hope wherever you send me doesn't have an equally obvious hole in the wall."

Silence. The advance of the soldiers stopped, all except for one seemingly very heavy one. Armor clopped and clanked and clanged, the approach slow and cautious. Balthier could see the look on Fran's face; she was far from concerned. He was confused as to why she was so calm, until the visage of the approaching guard (or Judge, as it were) was suddenly hovering over him. Balthier was expressionless as he gazed up at that familiar face, with the blond facial hair, blue eyes, striking features, and facial scar. The only thing missing was his long, unkempt hair. No, it seemed he had learned what a pair of scissors were. All in all, he looked dashing enough to give Balthier a run for his money. Although, Balthier mulled with a stupid grin, he would always be younger.

"Balthier?"

His voice was shaken, confused, and flustered. The pirate couldn't tell if he was aggravated, surprised, or relieved that it wasn't anything too big. Balthier positioned his hand in a mock wave on the floor, uttering the words, "Hello Baaaaa... Gabranth."

He almost forgot that fon Ronsenberg no longer went by his real name. He was filling in for the former Gabranth, a Mr. Noah fon Ronsenberg. Nobody had noticed the switch, apparently, despite Basch's severe lack of his twin's beauty mark. Mayhap the other soldiers and the surviving Judge Magister just imagined that he lost it in a fight. Or something. Maybe that he traded it in for that manly scar of his. Or maybe they knew and just didn't say anything because they damn well didn't care. It could be any number of reasons, really.

"Balthier, what in the Emperor's name...?"

"I can explain, really," the pirate groaned, trying unsuccessfully to sit up. "While it looks like I took a room full of housekeepers hostage, I assure you that's not the case."

"We were hiding," Fran interrupted. Basch looked up at the viera and nodded, holstering his sword and dismissing the others with a wave of his hand. One of the soldiers began to protest, but was cut short by a scowl and cold stare. Deciding that his superior obviously knew what he was doing, he bowed respectfully and scampered off after his brethren. Seeing their chance to flee, the maids stampeded out like a herd of cattle, their heels clattering against the tile as they moved as fast as their pumps would allow.

"With all due respect, you must understand that when a couple of suspicious looking characters come in through the bloody fourth-story window, we have to wonder just what the bleeding hell is going on," Basch snapped, obviously annoyed. "You... you two are beyond me. Do you always enter buildings like this?"

"We would have came in through the front door, but given our reputation we'd likely be turned away," Balthier responded. "We came in the only way we knew how. We weren't intending to steal anything, pirate's honor."

"Do pirate's have honor?"

"I'd like to think the pirate that helped put your princess in her throne has some. You know, the one who got you out of Nalbina? And kept Rabanastre from going up in flames? Show some respect for your leading man, Basch. I think I've done enough to prove myself to the likes of you."

"Technically, Vaan and I got him out of Nalbina," Fran corrected. "Vaan attracted the guards, and I was forced to drop the cage because of it."

"Well, I kept Vaan from killing him."

"True," Fran replied, reaching down to aid her partner to his feet. Balthier staggered and brushed himself off, coughing a bit as he still struggled to recover from having the wind knocked clean out of him. The world spun momentarily, the pirate carefully shaking his head until it stopped twirling and dancing around him.

"What brings you here?" Basch demanded. "I see no reason for your presence, aside from thievery."

"You'd have to ask Fran. Surprisingly enough, this was her idea," Balthier spat. "Go ahead, Fran. Tell the man about your dire need for Tsenoble honey."

Basch's brow furrowed, Fran merely smiling at him and saying quietly, "I think it would be best if we saw Larsa first."

* * *

Black hair shining in the sunlight and desk piled with papers that he had to sign, he could hear the whir of airships outside, as they zipped to and fro in his airspace, flagships and Imperial fleets constantly circling the palace to ensure there was no attack. That didn't stop intruders from getting in anyway, apparently. He had heard the soldiers out and about, screaming and yelling and carrying on. He probably should have cared, but he couldn't bring himself to. Those who found the fourteen-year-old Emperor an easy target would soon find themselves sorely mistaken. He knew how to use a sword for one, and he had cut down things many times worse than a common assassin.

Like the moss-covered wyrm in Golmore Jungle, or the terrifying Tiamat at Henne Mines. If he could assist in felling a beast that was likely eighteen times the size of a full grown man when he was twelve, a couple more years of experience would prove to make him almost invincible.

Like his late brother. Only significantly less violent and crazy.

Signing another paper and setting it aside, he looked up at the old Judge Magister by his side. Judge Zargabaath was the only Magister who managed to claw his way out of the incident with Vayne Solidor alive. Judge Ghis, ambitious, had somehow managed to sink a dreadnought and the entire fleet through the use of nethicite. Judge Drace had been killed on Vayne's command after figuring out that Emperor Gramis' assassination was carried out by his son rather than the Senate. Judge Bergan? Oh, that madman laid waste to a holy mountain after lacing his bones with nethicite, only to be slaughtered by the now queen of Dalmasca and his current Gabranth replacement. Zargabaath? Quiet and out of the way, he stayed out of the crosshairs of either side. While he obeyed his orders, he did so in the most efficient and least bloody way possible. He was a man of duty who truly cared for his post and the people, constantly exposed to corruption yet never falling to it. He almost lost his life, two years prior. The massive flagship, Bahamut, suffered an engine failure and almost crashed into the royal Dalmascan city of Rabanastre.

Zargabaath was willing to end his life and sink his ship it order to ram it out of the way. His attempts had been stopped by a transmission from aboard the Bahamut, a set of criminals, a duo of sky pirates who Zargabaath had never met, having holed themselves within to jumpstart the engine just enough to steer it to someplace safe to crash. Said pirates were feared dead for a year, until Larsa found himself entangled in their affairs with a peculiar individual who sought eternal life. It was enough to reassure the young emperor that the good people still lived, and he had since been writing them fairly often. They never responded, but it was good to let them know he still thought fondly of them.

"Do you think they found the intruders?" Larsa asked Zargabaath bluntly. The judge laughed, responding, "I no longer hear a commotion. Either they escaped, or Gabranth managed."

"I wonder who it was."

"A rat and a rabbit," a voice called from the entrance of the chamber. Donning his helmet and cape flowing behind him, Basch slowly strode up to the Emperor, bowing a bit as a show of respect. Larsa nodded in response, glancing past his judge once he realized a couple of figures tagging along behind him. It barely took him a second to recognize the man who looked suspiciously like Dr. Cid, and the woman with the tall, speckled rabbit ears standing tall atop her head. Well, speak of the devil! The pirates had arrived!

With childlike impatience, Larsa immediately lost his composure and leapt up from his desk. Zargabaath seemed a bit shocked by the unprofessional show, Basch only laughing as he sat his helm on the side of the desk and looked back at his two former comrades and the young emperor. Larsa basically threw himself on Balthier and Fran, managing somehow to wrap the two in a giddy hug despite the distance between them. Some things never changed. Larsa's loyalty to those who had done him well was one of them. To the kid, it mattered not that the people who stood before him likely had bounties on their heads worth more than the entirety of his palace. No, he just remembered them as the ones who helped him stop a war, and saved him from his brother.

"Fran! Balthier!" Larsa's voice chimed, dripping with excitement as he spoke. "I had heard you two were in town."

"Word travels fast in Archades," Balthier chuckled, patting the emperor on the head and rustling his hair. He may have been a teenager now, but he'd always be that same little kid who seemed too smart for his own good.

"I heard a beggar attacked you in Tsenoble," the emperor stated worriedly. "Are you alright?"

"That was no beggar. That was Jules. He's like a nanna in human skin. He's about as stupid, and his job is only slightly less degrading," the pirate grunted with a roll of his eyes. "Anyway, dear Larsa, we were just in the neighborhood and decided to swing by, jump in a window, get chased by your guards, and end up accidentally taking a bunch of your housekeepers hostage. I hope you're not offended by our sudden dropping in."

"In retrospect, we probably should have just pulled the Strahl around front and asked to speak with Ba... Gabranth," Fran added. Balthier waved his hand dismissively at her, snorting as he answered this with, "Pfff, that wouldn't be very sky-pirate like, now would it?"

"No. But Gabranth wouldn't have laid you out."

"Laid me out? Fran! I am invincible. Merely a shock to the system is all!"

"You flew the length of a baratine croc. And you thought you broke your skull on the floor."

"That was a show, Fran. To make Gabranth feel better about himself."

"You are a good actor."

"You forget: leading man."

Larsa laughed and made his way back to the desk, gesturing to a couple of seats that sat before it. Fran nodded a thank-you and gracefully took her seat, holding herself straight and proud in the presence of such nobility. Balthier apparently found this unnecessary, understandable considering that he did believe he was the most important man on earth. Throwing himself into the plush seat and leaning on his elbow, he crossed his legs and grinned dumbly at the kid. He was itching to announce what it was that brought them there. He was eager to see Larsa's face when he learned Fran had been wanting to inquire about his bees. Before he had the chance to blurt it out Basch opened his big mouth, however. Balthier clenched his fist and bit his lip, feeling the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity being stolen away by the middle-aged bastard in a tin can.

"Fran came with a peculiar request," the Judge proclaimed. Larsa raised an eyebrow and looked up at Basch with a perplexed expression.

"Oh?"

"She came to inquire about your hives. Apparently she has been searching high and low throughout Archades for honey made by bees in Tsenoble. A hapless endeavor, unless one were to count His Highness' hives in the garden."

"Is there a reason?" Zargabaath asked before anyone else could, obviously bewildered. Balthier supressed a laugh, it coming out as a strange muffled noise that tickled the back of his throat. The looks on their faces were priceless. Sure, he was laughing at his lady's expense, but she seemed not too bothered by it. It's not like she expected them to understand, in the same way she didn't expect Balthier to understand.

"I need honey made from the flowers of Balthier's home. He was born in Tsenoble. The vegetation around here, Central, and Tsenoble is similar, but vastly different from that of Nilbasse and Old Archades. It is because you can afford all manner of exotic flowers, which have become naturalized in more moneyed areas of Archades."

"Why Balthier?" Basch asked skeptically. Fran swallowed hard, especially when she noticed Balthier looking eagerly at her, chiming in with the words, "Yes, Fran. Why me? I've been dragged on this goose chase since you found that weird plant at the Estersand, and I've yet to be told why this is such an important errand."

"It is a personal viera matter I cannot discuss," she replied bluntly. "Not in front of people."

That sounded much more insulting than it should have. She could see Larsa, Basch, and feel Zargabaath looking at her with hurt or anger on their face. Clearing her throat she bowed her head, muttering, "My apologies. I can tell you as much: it is necessary for an augmenting elixir that I wish to administer to Balthier."

"Augment? What do I need to augment?" Balthier demanded, slightly offended. "Are you insinuating that I..."

He suddenly remembered: kid in the room. He let his words drawl and die off, but glared at Fran to try to drill in what he meant. It seemed all but Larsa understood as well, as Basch uttered a laugh that he tried to mask as a cough, and Zargabaath fell more quiet than usual. Larsa, ever innocent, only stared dumbly at the duo before asking, "Insinuating what?"

Zargabaath, at the opposite side of Larsa, shifted his weight uneasily. He was far, far too old and far, far too dignified for this sort of thing. It worried him that this pirate was the sort of person Larsa at one time did regular business with.

"I am not insinuating that you are... inadequate," Fran replied coldly, a bit bothered by the subject being brought up in front of the young emperor.

"Then what does it... augment?" the mildly embarrassed pirate asked.

She tried to think of the best way to put it. It was difficult. She couldn't come right out and say "it'll make you twice as longevous." That would clue the others in on just exactly what she meant. She had to think of a more subtle way of putting it. What was the closest thing she could say to that, without actually saying it...?

"Stamina?" she stated with a shrug. Balthier only bowed his head and coughed, scratching the side of his nose as he huffed, "By the gods, Fran. How many hours are you pushing for?"

"Hours of what?" Larsa asked, lost in the entire conversation. Zargabaath sputtered before trying to explain, "Erm... Um... Strenuous activity, sire. One you will not have to worry about for a long... long time. I would hope."

"It's not like that," Fran calmly responded. "Not that kind of stamina."

"There's a certain kind of stamina?" Larsa mulled. Zargabaath dropped his head; he would have slammed his palm so hard into his forehead it would have broken his skull, had he not been wearing the helmet. It very well saved his life, so it seemed. Waving his hand to Basch, he grunted, "Ask your guard later. He'll tell you."

"I didn't mean it in that way," the viera repeated, waving her hand. "This has nothing to do with things of that nature. If I may say so, I find you quite..."

What would be a good word to restore Balthier's obviously wounded ego?

"Divine," she finished, adding a small smirk for emphasis. "You needn't worry about such a thing."

Balthier sighed in relief, falling further into his seat as he dramatically slammed his hand into his chest as though recovering from a mortifying scare. Breathless, he announced, "Oh, thank gods. I thought I was losing my touch."

"Touch with what?" the suddenly indignant emperor demanded. Balthier looked at him and cocked an eyebrow, asking, "You're what? Fourteen? And you're so in the dark?"

"I am a fourteen-year-old boy who sits at a desk all day, signing papers thanks to my brother dissolving the Senate before my reign," the young Solidor answered. "I live a very sheltered life."

Balthier considered for a moment. Well, earlier in the day he was bemoaning the fact that he missed a rather comedic opportunity in earlier years. This would be an opportunity to make up for it. Clapping his hands together and standing up, he leaned over Larsa's desk and smiled. Basch should thank him for this, for not having to explain the basics later on. He didn't think the man's knightly attitude would allow him to bring up such a topic in the first place. Ha, if Larsa remained so sheltered, the end of the Solidor line would be the young lord.

"Well, Larsa, if you are as lost as you claim I must say that my faith in Archadian education is next to nonexistent. Let's say you let Fran go take a visit to your hives with Zargabaath and Gabranth? I have a life lesson to teach you in private."

"I should think not," Basch barked. "Balthier, you are the last person I'd want teaching a child about _that_ subject."

"You think me a whore?" he gasped, feinting offense. "I assure you I am merely a womanizer. That woman with the big ears is the only person lucky enough to get any more than a kiss. Except a couple of times while I was drunk, but we don't bring up that because it ticks her off. I assure you, my old friend, that I won't destroy the boy's mind. Now..." He gave Basch a hard shove away from the desk. "... go be a good boy and help Fran."

* * *

Fran sat in the cabin of the Strahl on the edge of their bed, gazing at her Mesmer Bramble with a jar of fresh honey in her graceful hands. An extra jar was at her feet, Larsa insisting that they take a bit extra out of fear that they may need food. He was such a considerate kid, and obviously had been very happy to see them regardless of the fact that they only showed up to ask a favor.

She had been floored by his gardens, up on the roof of the palace. That boy obviously loved his flora, that was for sure. As soon as she stepped out with Basch, Zargabaath having took his leave after being summoned off to tend to more pressing affairs, the viera could have sworn she was in Eruyt Village yet again. Glittering flowers moist with dew sang in careful rows, blowing a sweet fragrance that danced about the lush dogwood trees and ferns that tangled with the vines that clung vigorously to lattices. Vegetables and fruit were fresh for the taking, butterflies and ladybeetles decorating the plants like fine jewelry. The hives were kept in the very back, Basch utterly surprised when Fran informed him they need not get the beekeeper. She had dealt with bees enough in her past to know what she was doing: a sleep spell on the hive, before reaching in to grab at a comb. She had broke off a chunk, insisting to take it as is before the Judge offered her a jar and told her it would probably be much more sanitary to do it his way.

Well, more convenient perhaps. She was pretty sure her hands were clean enough to handle the comb herself, but she couldn't argue that it was easier to carry in the little glass container.

She wished they could have stayed around longer but soon after Larsa emerged from having "the talk" with Balthier, and announced loud enough for everyone to hear that he was never having children, Balthier wagging his finger with the remark of, "You say that now, but everybody with kids says that at some point in their life." Basch had been a bit peeved, telling Balthier he should probably go before he destroyed the poor emperor's mind, which led to an argument between the two headstrong males over whether or not it was a good thing to shelter Larsa from everything but paperwork. It almost came to blows, what with Basch becoming more impatient with his gaining years and heavy duties, and Balthier being... well, Balthier. That man would punch a songbird for singing too early in the morning.

She tossed the jar back and forth in her hands before setting it next to the Mesmer Bramble's pot. Placing her hands in her lap, she glanced over her shoulder and called into the cockpit, "Balthier?"

"Yes, Fran?"

"Could you come here?"

It was time, she decided. They were in private aboard his ship, nobody around to eavesdrop on what she was to say. She would now make it known to her beloved partner her intentions, and hopefully not scare him away in the process. As she heard his shoes pad against the metal floor of the Strahl, her heart skipped a beat. Would he turn it down, and if he did what would she do? She knew she would be crushed if such a thing were to happen, but surely a man as conceited as Balthier couldn't turn down the opportunity to bask in the glory of youth for an indefinite amount of him. She twirled her hair worriedly as she sensed him coming up behind her, ears drooping until she felt a hand snake around her waist and felt him take a seat at her side. Looking over at him, she saw him staring straight ahead at the Mesmer Bramble, moving his head this way and that to view it from different angles. As the lighting changed from his shifting position, so did its color. He seemed mesmerized, the plant obviously living up to its name.

"What a peculiar plant," he finally stated, pulling Fran a bit closer to him. "I'd dare say it's the prettiest little thing I've seen in all my life, but that would be a lie and we both know it."

"You flatter," she said coldly. Playfully, he tossed back his head and snorted, "Who said I was talking about you?"

She shoved him hard, him tumbling off the bed. Balthier hit the ground with a laugh. At long last, Fran was acting like herself once more. He had become a bit worried with her sudden, uncharacteristic shows of kindness, ambition, and the terrifying giddiness she had exhibited on a handful of occasions. He liked having "mean" Fran back. It was that strength of hers that always attracted him, the way she always seemed to exude an aura that let him know she didn't need him and he was fortunate she was putting up with him. It added an air of taboo to things, of risk. Sure, he knew she loved him and he doubted she'd leave, but there was always that sort of feeling he got when she acted like this, somewhat akin to the thrill of taking on a gamble.

"I can't help that I'm beautiful," he said, clambering up from the floor. She looked down at him and twitched her nose, simply stating, "If you insist on talking like that, I would advise staying down."

"Okay, fine. Fine, I'll stop."

He held up his hand as a sign of surrender, resuming his seat beside the viera. He stared blankly at the bramble again, tilting his head one way and then the other, watching it glitter from blue to orange to gold and green. It reminded him of a tuft of phoenix down, shining in a rainbow of hues that seemed to be ever-shifting. Fran chuckled at his seeming obsession with the plant, inquiring, "It is interesting, is it not?"

"Too bad I don't know what it does," he replied. "With how you were acting, I thought perhaps it had the same effect on a person as licking a toad."

"I was excited," she explained. "Do forgive me for such behavior. I know I am not oft given to moments of such emotion, and it may have very well been disturbing to you. However, just as any other living being, I experience a spectrum of feelings. Excitement is one I am not prone to, but one I am not skilled at controlling."

"Why so much excitement over a plant?"

"It is a sacred plant of the viera people," she explained, touching one of its leaves gingerly. "It is an entity not to leave the Wood, growing only in viera groves and typically wilting and losing its power after taken from the bounds of the land of my people. To see it alive in the world of Humes is an impossible thing, yet it has fallen into my care. Truly, the Wood has chosen to bless its daughter, though why I cannot say. Perhaps she knows of my deeds, or mayhap I have helped the viera of Eruyt in a manner it deemed suitable of reward."

"Well, you certainly have put up with enough to warrant a reward, though I had thought being graced with my presence was quite a reward in and of itself."

"You are possibly the most arrogant Hume alive."

"Not arrogant, Fran. Confident."

"Your confidence, then, borders on egomaniacal."

The two sat in silence, eying the plant still. Fran cleared her throat, picking up the pot from where it sat and holding in front of Balthier, urging him to take it with a nod and a slight shove forward. He grasped it in his hands, her releasing her grip when she was sure he had his. He lifted the pot up to the light and turned it, admiring the bramble's myriad of colors and distinct shine. She smiled, amused that the man was even capable of being so awestruck by nature. He had never seemed to care much for it before.

"It's sacred, eh?" he asked. "I can see why. This thing looks almost as though the gods dropped it out of the heavens."

"It is not just the appearance. It is a mystic plant, very powerful and the primary ingredient in the most potent of viera elixirs. It is a plant that absorbs copious amounts of Mist, growing more powerful with the passing days. Within a week's time, a sapling plant carries with it enough power to rival a crate of magicite."

"It's nethicite as a plant?" Balthier asked curiously. Fran shook her head, taking the plant back from him and setting it on its designated spot at the bedside table.

"No. It is a creation of life, not destruction. It does not harm. It does only good. One could never use it as a weapon, as it is meant to give life and never to take. Just as the Wood. The Wood gives, and never takes."

"I have scars that say otherwise," he argued, wincing in fond rememberance of a particular moss-covered wyrm that had set upon them in Golmore Jungle. Fran's sister, Jote, had warned that the Wood was jealous of the Humes that took its daughter, but it had apparently been very prejudiced against Balthier in particular. He could still remember inhaling lungfuls of toxic pollen and spores, being so disoriented and enraged that he almost shot himself on accident, and generally being swiped, raked, and trampled by the bastard. That creature had practically mopped the floor with him. The Wood never takes? He'd gamble his soul to say otherwise. That thing obviously wanted to take him somewhere.

"I digress," she coldly snapped in response, before regaining her composure. "The Mesmer Bramble is used in a potion that the viera of the Wood administer to themselves when they come of age. The Bramble slows aging to a crawl. While the effects wear off in due time, it can add a hefty amount of years onto one's lifespan. It works, regardless of species or race. This I know by accident. Jote, in her youth, once grew curious and fed some to a Mu. It... still lives."

Balthier raised an eyebrow, looking at Fran skeptically and slowly urging, "Aaaaand?"

"And, I think the Wood has gifted my deeds with the Bramble. Perhaps Jote did not lie when she informed me that the Wood did not despise me. Perhaps it was jealous of the Humes who took me. Mayhap it is over its jealousy."

"Aaaaand?"

"And, I would seek to bestow you with the Gift. Should you accept, your longevity will rival that of myself. Meaning that a fiery explosion will not end our ties, but rather time."

"You assume we'd last as long?"

Fran's ears drooped. How cold and callous of him. Looking at the ground, she simply muttered, "I do believe I have found what is mine, but should you seek your pleasure elsewhere you would merely find yourself blessed with your 'godly appearance' for a century longer than you should."

Balthier reached over and grabbed her chin, lifting it up and turning her to face him. He smirked, shaking his head as he laughed, "I didn't mean abandoning you. I meant, 'Do you think we'll live that long?' Fancy plant or not, a fiery explosion could be in our future regardless."

"I would like to think that our luck would last longer than your youth otherwise," was her blunt answer. Balthier grinned; she obviously had a lot of faith in his ability to think that much. Nodding slowly in understanding, he ran a hand across her cheek and smiled. There was an air of hope in her, some sort of strange ambition that he had not seen save a couple of times when they first began travelling side-by-side. Oddly enough, it was the same expression she had when she first laid eyes on the Strahl, when that mechanic urge in her prompted her to beg Balthier for permission to change it according to her ideas and plans. Plans, it turned out, that made the Strahl into a beast, in the best way possible of course. Perhaps, if he followed through with this plan, the outcome for her current venture would be just as rewarding.

"I do hope you are not offended," Fran spoke softly. "I did not ask your opinion. Humes are weird about longevity. Too much life seems to weigh on your kind much worse than it does my own, perhaps because you are so fixated on your gods who tell you that such lasting is against their will."

"Last I checked, I wasn't the one to fear divine wrath," he plainly answered. "And me? Offended by the fact you want to keep me around? What an idiotic reason to be offended. I'm actually all for this little plan of yours, though I wish you had told me sooner. I now fully regret being such a surly cur in Archades."

"As you well should."

Nice one. Balthier raised his eyebrows and looked away with a sputtered cough. She really didn't mince words, and she didn't spare feelings. Patting her on the back, he slowly edged away. She was amused by this show, this grown man acting like a boy who got the wind knocked out of him. Words had such an impact with him, but so was the price of a man whose ego was as inflated as a Bomb King. After a moment of watching him squirm, she did feel a bit sorry for him. After a moment to let him wallow in his own shame, she smiled and chimed, "I forgive you."

"I thank you. I don't mean to act so... ungentlemanly. While I doubt that is a word, I cannot think of a better way to describe i-"

"You were acting like an ass."

Balthier winced, muttering, "Okay, maybe there is a better way to put it."

"I still forgive you. I would ask that you refrain from behaving in such a manner in the future, however. We have many ingredients to gather and you should do well to remember that this is for your own benefit."

She stood and began to walk from the cabin, sauntering to the cockpit with the intent of hunting down their next target. Balthier sat in silence, mentally scrolling over the list of ingredients she had hurriedly shot off while trapped in Larsa's palace. He chewed on his lip in deep thought, mindlessly standing and strolling after his viera partner who was sitting in her seat, patiently waiting for him to take his post. He obliged her, flopping into his seat while still gnawing on his lip. She watched him, curious. He seemed quite lost in thought.

"Fran?" he finally spoke, after an awkward quiet befell them. She twitched her ears nervously.

"Yes?"

"Do you have to use ingredients from Golmore? I would assume not, as there are viera everywhere there are forests. Is it a necessity that we go to Golmore? I mean, do you think it would be a good idea?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, what if we went to the jungles of your birth? What then? If your sisters found you out and about, you can be sure that they'd be inquiring the Green Word just what it is you're up to and they may not like what answers they find. Your kind aren't known to be very forthcoming with the sharing of their secrets, nor are they known to be fond of my kind. I suppose they probably know by now anyway, but they can't leave Eruyt or Golmore."

"What are you getting at? I am not following you. Are you saying that this is impossible?"

Balthier waved his hand dismissively, barking, "No, no. Of course not. I'm just asking if you think it is possible to bypass Golmore altogether. You mentioned... throat wolf blood, for example! There are hellhounds in Golmore, yes. However, there are worgen and silver lobos and tartari and cerberi elsewhere. All equally capable of being throat wolves, all equally capable of being bled. I mean, it seems viable that this would work. Yes? Eruyt isn't the only grove in Ivalice, and Golmore isn't the only densely forested area where viera live. Yet they all make similar elixirs."

Fran seemed unnerved.

"I do not wish to risk it," she admitted.

"Then ask a viera from another village."

"How do you propose we do that?"

"Not every viera walking freely in Ivalice is from Eruyt, are they?"

"No, but do we even know anyone who...?"

"The one that helped Vaan, Penelo, and I when Vaan stupidly accepted that hunt for Clan Centurio. The one for the giant malboro? What was her name again...?"

"Kjrn," Fran announced almost immediately. It was a name she didn't find hard to remember, seeing as it was merely a letter off from that of her younger sister. She had remembered that viera well, the one who saw Vaan take the hunt for the malboro called "Carrot." She had doubted their abilities, offering her assistance under the guise of being bored. It was a lie that fooled the others, but never Fran, and a lie that made Fran rejoice when the rival viera found herself too weak to fight, and the teenage Humes and her sky pirate persevered.

"She wasn't from Eruyt, was she?"

"No. She smelled of fog, moondust, lillies, and heated Mist. I'd dare say that she was from the Salikawood."

"Ah," Balthier mulled. "Perhaps we could compare recipes, then?"

"I would rather not speak to her."

"Well, it's either that or we risk running afoul of your elder sister and turning the entire village of Eruyt on our hides. Which would you prefer? Fighting your blood, or asking for advice?"

Fran grimaced.

She hated when he proved more logical than her.


End file.
